The Journal of Dora Damage by Belinda Starling Page A

‘Is he in good health?’
    ‘Passing good, sir,’ I finally said. ‘Yes, sir.’ The assistant was standing by the window, peering out into the street, as
     if keeping watch.
    ‘And his apprentice, Jack. How fares he?’
    ‘Passing well, sir, yes, sir. Jack is a fine apprentice.’
    ‘And of course, Sven Ulrich.’
    ‘Yes, indeed.’
    ‘I hear he is no longer with you. Hard to keep, the Germans. They are so very precise, such fine craftsmen. One cannot keep
     them without paying the price.’
    I looked at him but found no answer; my jaw was slack with horror. What else did he know? What had he heard from others in
     the trade? Of course they all talked to each other; they all knew each other’s business. He must have known how rude and surly
     Peter Damage had become; how no one wanted to work with him any more; how his standards of work had deteriorated and that
     he was no longer fit to call himself a Master Binder; that he was facing bankruptcy, and poverty.
    ‘So, your business here?’
    ‘Peter – Mr Damage – sent me.’ Regardless of what this man knew of our circumstances, I had to try, at least. ‘He would have
     come himself but, well, he’s been laid up with a hurt leg and cannot walk. He has given me his full consent for coming here;
     nay, it was his very suggestion. His hands are fine, though, you see. He can still get the books up.’
    Diprose was smiling at me. I had to keep going. I thought that he vaguely resembled William IV, although not so much that
     one might accord him any more than a modicum of respect.
    ‘I couldn’t help noticing, sir, that a few weeks ago you sent your card to my husband, but I fear you received no reply.’
     His smile didn’t flicker. ‘At least, I assume you received no reply. It’s our errand boy, see, proved difficult and, frankly,
     unreliable, and . . . Well, whatever your purpose was with the card, he would like to help. If it’s work you’re wanting us
     – him – to do, he still can.’
    Diprose pulled a chair up, and sat down. I noticed he had some difficulty bending at the waist, so he eased his trunk down
     to the point at which his knees would bend no more, then toppled backwards into the chair, with a grunt. He folded his arms,
     and said nothing, but gestured to me to continue.
    ‘Is it work? Or, or maybe it’s nothing any more.’ I was uneasy now, and could not stop my mouth from overworking. ‘Pardon
     my troubling you, sir, it’s just that, he doesn’t like to ignore his customers, and seeks to provide a tip-top service to
     booksellers and libraries and purveyors, who furnish him with, with . . .’
    Diprose held his hand up, and turned his head stiffly away, while holding my gaze with his eyes. I bit my lip as I watched
     him gesture to the assistant, who leant over to receive a whisper in his ear before disappearing behind the counter into the
     back room. Mr Diprose was still looking at me, arms folded. Unnerved, my eyes flitted across the wood panels and display-shelves,
     as if they would help me know what to do next. I smoothed my skirts, and had just about decided to stand up and slip away
     into the anonymity of the London streets, when the assistant returned with a fat manila envelope.
    He handed it to Diprose, who gave it directly to me. It was surprisingly heavy. I looked down at it on my lap, then back up
     at him, and then down again.
    ‘A Bible,’ he said.
    ‘A Bible? I thought you did medical books.’
    ‘We do all sorts of books in here, Mrs Damage,’ he said, mocking me. He had his head on one side, as if he were trying to measure
     me. ‘Do you know Sir Jocelyn Knightley?’ I shook my head. ‘I mean, do you know of him? Have you not read, in the papers, of his triumphant sojourn amongst the tribes of Southern Africa? Ma chère , he is an eminent physician: un peu scholar; un peu scientist; un peu adventurer. His dramatic exploits on the dark continent have caught the attention not only of the scientific